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When our food comes, I’m thankful for something to do. Each bite feels like lead as my mind mulls over the entire interaction. He spent all this time living so close and never thought about stopping by until now?
“So,” he starts as he stabs his steak with a fork. “Probably pretty rough to lose your mom like that. She was something.”
My stomach twists, warning bells ringing loudly in my head. “Yeah,” I say. “She really was.”
He hums, taking a bite of steak and then washing it down with the beer he ordered. “You get a good chunk of change when that happened?”
Everything inside of me burns hot. My chest feels like it’s going to bubble over, pouring my rage all over the dinner I can’t stomach. “Excuse me?” I ask.
Brown eyes meet mine, but this time when I look, I don’t see anything of myself reflected back. I see someone hollow.
“I mean, she had cancer, right? I got contacted toward the end or whatever. She knew for a while.” He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “If she knew she was going to die, she probably had a pretty good life insurance policy.”
“You were contacted?” My lungs expand and deflate too rapidly, my ears drowning out the noise of the restaurant around me. I reach for my bag beneath my chair, gripping it like it will save me from punching this man in the face.
“I mean, yeah,” he says. “I knew about you. But I was tied up at the time. I was dating this woman, and thought we’d get married. It wasn't exactly the right time for a kid, you know?”
My teeth grind together. Memories of B walking across a stage at her college graduation, memories of the funeral, my grandfather trying his best to help–it all flashes through my mind like a movie. “I can imagine,” I say.
The waiter comes around asking if we need anything, and I’m pretty sure I’m seconds away from combusting.
“The check,” I say, and Adam smiles–a feral expression that sends me close to tipping over the edge. As if I could get any closer.
“So, she did leave you with a chunk of change, kid.”
Without another word, I stand up, throwing my bag over my shoulder and walking to the counter. After making up some fake explanation for why I need to pay immediately, I charge my unfinished meal and pay for my father’s, too.
And when I get to the parking lot–alone–I let the tears spill out of me.
Thirty-Three
Griffin
When I get backstage after the show, I finally plug my phone in, resting my head against the wall behind the hard ass chair I fell into.
The door to the room creeks open, and Ryland shows up with the four other band members following behind him.
He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, and grabs a water from the fridge, throwing himself onto the couch where he places his feet on the coffee table. “So,” he says, glancing in my direction. “How are you liking the road, Griffin?” There’s a smile plastered on his face.
It’s the second show I’ve played since joining the guys on tour, and I’d be lying to say I don’t enjoy it. For starters, I’m not mixing anything I don’t like. The live shows are thrilling, the tech side is something I’m good at. I briefly recall mixing a song that sucked back in December. It was the song that had me feeling like I’d wasted my entire childhood dreaming of doing something with music.
This band–this tour–makes me feel like it was all worth it.
“I fucking love it,” I say, picking up my phone. The thing must have been really dead, considering the red battery is still popping up on the screen.
“That’s good.” Ryland takes another swig of water. “Want to make this something a little more permanent?”
My heart is beating faster in my chest, the excitement making some of my exhaustion disappear. “That would be awesome, man.” I run a hand down my face, barely able to keep up. “I mean, I’d have to talk about it with Ellie when I get back, but I would definitely consider something like that.”
“Ah, the girl,” he says. “She has to approve, for sure. My wife would plot my murder if she found out my guys were making decisions without approval.” He chuckles, and I press the lock button on my phone again, watching the screen light up.
A number of missed calls come through, all from Ellie, and my heart sinks.
Before I click on her number, I read the text message.
Ellie:I think he only wanted money.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
